When I last saw you, I was old and aging still, unbending in manner, educated in tact and tautologies, frequently dispensing neither at no one’s command. And you? Bright, clear eyes are all I remember. The way they would dart about and flick across me,

When we last met, we were words apart.

I honestly don’t mean that as some kind of pseudo-spiritual sentimentalization – I’m certainly not trying to invoke any pleasing idealization of the past: quite simply, we exchanged 7 words before you walked off and I can’t quite remember what you said, I’m sorry, I’ve tried, it’s not like they’re unimportant, you know, they’re vastly important actually. It’s rather funny the immense mental toll they take on my daily psyche, when I haven’t the slightest clue what they even are!

I guess it’s the conceit of “if I had only known the right words to say, the right combination of letters” and so on and so forth, I’m no stranger to this line of thinking, of course, but it wasn’t just that this time. What was it, what was it..

On some Fridays – the days tend to blend into each other recently – I clasp my hands and pray, silent as we’ve always been. You never show, though. I think maybe Did I push you away? Did you just grow weary of putting up with this toxic relationship of internal self-flagellation and the occasional lashing out?

Well, it’s getting late anyway. If you do read this, I guess I’m trying to say I’m sorry. And…I miss you. And all the usual things. I know I’m supposed to find internal meaning, which is great, it’s fantastic, but I still kind of define myself in terms of you, so, that’s a problem, that’s troubling, and it’d be great if you could just come back, yeah? Okay.